


Happy Someday

by falsteloj



Category: Young Dracula
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsteloj/pseuds/falsteloj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin and Vlad meet again in the future. In the style of a cheesy made for TV rom-com.</p><p>(I have a ton more YD stuff - you can find story summaries, etc, by clicking <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/512861/chapters/27201609">HERE</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Someday

_"This is Stokely FM, taking you back to the naughty noughties right through until – "_  
  
"I  _don't_  think so," Imelda scowled and jabbed at the controls, dance music blaring through the speakers.  
  
"Put it back on," Robin protested, as evenly as he could, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. It had been a long, trying day and his patience was starting to fray.  
  
Imelda, knowing exactly which buttons to press, sneered and raised an eyebrow, "Or what? You going to ground me? Oh, yeah," she snapped her fingers as if in sudden realisation, "that's right, you can't. Because we don't have a house for you to ground me in."  
  
"It's not my fault," Robin said, wishing he could convince himself of the fact.  
  
"Well it's not mine, is it!?" She shook her head and turned to scowl out of the window.  
  
Robin bit at his lip; she had a right to be angry, he knew. She was going to have to start a new school, leave all her old friends behind. Have his mam fussing and interfering and his dad dropping hints about his mixed scout troop every thirty seconds. Out loud he said,  
  
"It won't be so bad. You'll be able to see your mam more." No response. "Your friends can come and visit. And, there's loads to do in Stokely, you'll see. There's a bowling alley."  
  
"I hate bowling," Imelda snarled. "I hate Stokely. And, most of all, I hate you!"  
  
Robin sighed as they passed the 'Welcome to Stokely' sign.

He knew the feeling.

* * *

"My little Vladdy, home to roost."

Vlad pulled a face as the Count flung an arm out, putting on a show for his apathetic audience. Renfield was on all fours, looking for what Vlad dreaded to think. Ingrid was eyeing him up like he was a clove of garlic. Her daughter, Myra, whose hatred of him only seemed to grow stronger with every passing year, was busy stabbing pins into his likeness.  
  
"Yeah, well," Vlad said, wincing at the positioning of those pins. He hoped they didn't really work. "It won't be for long. Only until they finish the refurbishment of the Council chambers."  
  
"If you were here an hour it would be an hour too long," Myra muttered.  
  
The Count frowned but made no effort to chastise her. Vlad sighed and hauled his duffle bag to his shoulder, reaching for the next piece of his luggage. If he left it to Renfield he would be waiting until this time next week.  
  
"A word of warning," Ingrid appeared in front of him, her bony fingers clenched around the neck of his guitar, "so much as think of touching this and, Grand High Vampire or not, I'll smash it over your head."  
  
"But – "  
  
"Ah," she raised a hand to stop him, "Whose castle is this?"  
  
Vlad scowled. "Fine."  
  
"There," Ingrid smiled or at least, Vlad thought, got as close to it as she was ever likely to, "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Myra smirked over at him and Vlad shook his head and made for his room; now he remembered why leaving home had been such a good idea.

* * *

* * *

"Do you think Auntie Chloe will be around this weekend?"

"Why's that, love?" Mrs. Branagh asked, busy dishing out bowls of dessert.  
  
Imelda shrugged, overly casual, although Robin couldn't help but smile at the slight blush that marred her cheeks - it had to have something to do with the boy she had been telling them she couldn't stand for the last fifteen minutes. "There's a party next week. I need to go shopping for a new dress."  
  
"I can go shopping with you," Robin said, taking a break from shovelling spoonfuls of apple tart and custard. "I hardly ever see you these days." She was always out with her friends, or locked away in her bedroom.  
  
"You?" Imelda scowled. "What would you know about fashion, just look at you." She looked pointedly at his scruffy – and majorly outdated – outfit.  
  
"I'll 'ave you know I'm a slave to fashion."  
  
"I bought that T-shirt for you," Mrs. Branagh said, eyeing up the fraying sleeve and faded material in distaste, "when you were fourteen."  
  
Robin looked down at his chest, "What's wrong with it? It's got loads of wear left in it yet!"  
  
"It's older than I am!" Imelda pulled a face of disgust, "That is exactly why I don't want to go with you. You're so embarrassing. Why can't you wear something normal like everyone else?" Before Robin had chance to answer she went on, "No wonder they sacked you."  
  
"They didn't sack me!"  
  
"I always told you," Mr. Branagh said, putting the evening paper down, "get a trade. Look at Paul; he's got his own business now. Graphic design comes and goes but, it doesn't matter how bad the economy is, people always want their toilets unblocking."  
  
Imelda was sniggering at the sight of him being told off and Robin shook his head, "It's not my fault the firm went bust, is it? An', anyway, I've got an interview. Tomorrow, actually."  
  
"In graphic design?"  
  
"No," Robin admitted reluctantly.  
  
"Stacking shelves?" Imelda asked, smirking.  
  
"No."  
  
"There, there," Mrs. Branagh patted his arm, oblivious to the way he struggled not to snap at her in response, "I'm sure you'll find something soon. And, anyway, it's lovely to have you both back here." She smiled at Imelda, "Just like when you were a baby; one big happy family."  
  
Imelda scowled and Robin stabbed at his pudding viciously. If this were happiness he would hate to ever have to face despair.

* * *

"So, is it true?"

Vlad hurriedly dropped the guitar over the side of the bed and looked up at Ingrid, expression innocent. "Is what true?"  
  
Ingrid smirked, holding up a copy of the Sunblock, "That," she read aloud, "'His Blandness was left in tears when, during a surprise visit to his latest squeeze's coffin, he found his partner sinking fangs into an eminent opposition Minister'? I was wondering why you couldn't just go and stay with loverboy."  
  
"Is it any of your business?" Vlad asked, scowling. So he was the laughing stock of the vampire world, did he really have to relive his latest humiliation at every given opportunity?  
  
"Everything's my business. Come on, Vlad," she goaded, "you can tell your favourite big sister."  
  
"No, alright, it's not true," Vlad snapped, glaring down at his hands. "I got back from that conference in Albania and found them in  _my_  coffin."  
  
Ingrid laughed, the disgusted expression on Vlad's face only prolonging it. Eventually she sank down onto the bed next to him, wiping at her eyes. "Oh, Vlad, this has made my night!"  
  
"Well," Vlad grimaced, "I'm glad it amuses you."  
  
"Aw, come on," Ingrid shook her head, "it's not like it's any great loss, is it? Stanislav was a total Wimpire." She paused, grinning. "Had a lot in common really, didn't you?"  
  
Vlad didn't answer. Ingrid wouldn't understand the way he had begun to hope that, this time, he'd found someone he could spend the rest of his neverending unlife with.

Ingrid sighed. "You must have known it was never going to work."

Vlad looked at her sharply and she shrugged, looking pointedly over at the photo frames on his dresser,

"You do realise that using those now officially makes you a paedophile."  
  
He pulled a face, "I don't do anything with them!" He glanced in their direction, at the happy grins across his and Robin's faces, and had to look away. "I just like to remember him."  
  
"Which is why you take his cape to bed with you? Don't give me that look," Ingrid glared back at him, "I saw you this afternoon, dribbling all over the collar."  
  
"I don't dribble in my sleep," Vlad said, embarrassed. He hadn't thought anybody had even noticed he still had anything of Robin's.  
  
Ingrid got to her feet, touching a hand to his shoulder, her gaze softening slightly, "Your relationships always end up like this for the same reason mine do." She looked at the photographs unseeingly, and Vlad knew she was thinking about Will.  
  
"Three's a crowd."

* * *

"So, tell me," the man – not much younger than himself Robin thought, mid twenties maybe – said, leaning back in his chair with his converse clad feet on the desk, "what makes you think you're our man?"

"Well," Robin started nervously; his interview technique had never been up to much at the best of times. "I know horror films inside out. Especially vampire films; I know everything there is to know about vampires, seriously. I've got this list of every vampire film ever made an' I've seen almost every single one on it." At the man's incredulous look he stammered on, "an' I'm enthusiastic an' hardworking an' that. I don't mind what hours I do."  
  
Caleb, Robin finally deciphering the tiny writing on the man's name tag, looked him up and down appraisingly. "How do you feel about wearing a vampire costume on national television, putting on a stupid accent, and being made a laughing stock of?"  
  
Robin shrugged. "I've got a teenage daughter; there's nothing I could do that'd make me any more of a loser in her eyes than I already am."  
  
Caleb grinned and nodded, "Fair enough, mate. Come in Friday and we'll do a screen test."  
  
Robin grinned back. "Awesome!"

 He was still grinning when he shut the front door behind him, calling out,

"I got the job!"

"Well done," Mrs. Branagh said, smiling indulgently at him. "I knew you would."  
  
"I suppose this means you won't be helping out with the Scout troop now then?" Mr. Branagh asked.  
  
Robin did his best to keep a straight face, the knowing smirk Imelda was sending him from her grandfather's side doing nothing to help. "I might 'ave to give it a miss, dad. I'm really gutted about it though."  
  
Imelda started sniggering, making a show of coughing into her hand when Mr. Branagh turned to look at her.  
  
"So, you're going to be on telly," Imelda asked as he sank down onto the sofa, "wearing this?"  
  
"Aw, where'd you find that?" Robin asked, reaching a hand out for the cloth in her hands. He shook it out and held it up. "Now this is a proper vampire cape."  
  
"You're such a sad act," Imelda said, pulling her feet up onto the chair, "I can't believe you even wrote  _Vlad Dracula_  on the name tag. I have no idea what my mum ever saw in you."  
  
Robin shrugged, smoothing the creases from the cape. "Neither does she. An' anyway, this wasn't my cape. Vlad gave it to me."  
  
"Vlad Count?" Mrs. Branagh asked, "He was a lovely boy." She turned to Imelda, "You know Mr. Count?" Imelda nodded dutifully, she vaguely remembered having met him once, bit of a recluse, or so her nan always said. "Vlad is his son. Him and your dad used to pretend to be vampires, sitting up in his bedroom with their capes on watching Dracula."  
  
"And how old were you?" Imelda asked incredulously.  
  
"Not very old," Robin muttered, blushing. He fingered the faded name tag absently, wondering what Vlad was doing now. Something big in Romania, Ingrid had said last time he'd seen her, years ago now. Vlad always had been destined for great things.  
  
"They were fourteen," Mr. Branagh corrected, the same look of disapproval on his face he had reserved for any mention of Vlad all those years ago. "Vlad was a nice boy," he said before Mrs. Branagh could chastise him for it, "but I was glad when Vlad didn't come back to Stokely with them. It wasn't healthy." He met Robin's gaze, "for either of you. You needed to get involved in the real world."  
  
"Yeah, well, look where that got him," Imelda shook her head and flashed Robin a smile, "he was fifteen when I was born."  
  
Robin smirked at the way his father bristled and put the cape down. "Had a lot of catching up to do, didn't I?"  
  
"Robin," Mrs. Branagh scolded.  
  
Holding his hands up in mock surrender he went on, "I'm joking!" Tone more serious he said, "Don't you start getting any ideas, mind. I want you to be at least 21 before you so much as look at a boy. 30 before you do anything else."  
  
"You're such a loser."  
  
He smiled back, but couldn't help the way his gaze strayed to the window – to the castle – as he answered, "I know."

* * *

* * *

"Branagh-o!"

Robin cringed, turning around reluctantly.  
  
"It is, isn't it? 'Aven't seen you in donkeys years, mate!"  
  
He grimaced back, taking in the other man's football shirt and close cropped hair. Andrew Davies had never been his mate. Davies grinned and nudged him, motioning down the supermarket aisle to where Imelda was busy picking out new foundation to spend his wages on.  
  
"Bit young for you, ain't she?" He smirked lecherously. "Still, grass on the pitch and all that."  
  
Robin clenched his fingernails into his palm, struggling not to give into the urge to punch Davies in the face, and said coldly, "That's my fourteen year old daughter you're talking about."  
  
"No way!" Davies looked at her again, making no attempt to apologise for his insinuations. "Bloody hell! Last time I saw her she was in a pushchair." He turned back to Robin, "You'd never know she was yours, would you? Right little looker." Oblivious to Robin's glowering he went on, "You see much of Kels these days?"  
  
"No," Robin shook his head bitterly. The truth was that he had never seen much of her then either.  
  
Davies shrugged, "Probably better off out of it, anyway." He leaned against his trolley, gaze flickering to Imelda with a greater frequency than Robin would have liked, "God, she looks like her mam mind, don't she?"  
  
Imelda was starting back towards them and Robin made to make his excuses, privately hoping he wouldn't run into Davies for another eleven or twelve years, when Davies said, "I always respected you for what you did, not many blokes would 'ave." Robin frowned and he elaborated, "Taking on a baby like that. The thought scares me to death now."  
  
Robin smiled in spite of himself and Davies clapped him on the arm, "Well, I'll see you around then, mate."  
  
"Yeah," he managed something approaching a smile, "see you around."  
  
"Mate? You have a mate?"  
  
He tore his gaze from Davies' retreating back to Imelda's scowling face and gave her a half smile, "I 'ave loads of mates."  
  
"Yeah," Imelda scoffed, "it's just that most of them only exist in your head."  
  
"Haha, you're so funny," he said deadpan, clutching at his ribs. "An' 'ow much is that muck going to cost me?"  
  
"Twenty quid," she shrugged and put it in the trolley. She walked on ahead a few paces before calling over her shoulder, "And I need new school shoes and money for the cinema too."  
  
Robin just sighed and scanned the shopping list his mam had given him to find out what else he was going to have to shell out for.

* * *

"Vlad, my boy!"

Vlad jumped in surprise, looking up to see the Count stood in front of him, his hunting cape on.  
  
"Your sister and I are going out for a bite to eat. Why don't you come along?"  
  
"Dad," he sighed, rubbing at his temple and putting his pen down. "You know I only drink soya blood."  
  
"And look at you!" The Count exclaimed, face twisting in distaste. "You're wasting away. You need real nourishment. When I was your age I could scarcely move from one room to another without being set upon by a crowd of ravenous vampiresses," The Count smirked, raising an eyebrow to make sure Vlad understood his meaning.  
  
"Yeah, well," Vlad reached for the next letter he was supposed to be replying to, hoping it wasn't another advising him to stake himself in readiness for the next Council elections. "I don't like vampiresses either."  
  
"How will you know until you try, Vlad?" The Count chastised, shaking his head. "Your sister is shaming you with her fertility."  
  
Vlad pulled a face at his dad's phrasing. "How do you know I haven't?" The Count's expression brightened and Vlad hurried on before he could ask any questions and uncover the truth, "And, anyway, aren't you forgetting the equality act, hmmm?"  
  
The Count scowled, "Yes. How could I forget?" He glared at Vlad accusingly, "I don't know how you could do such a thing. All this," he waved a hand, "nonsense about vampiresses rights. And," he shook his head, "signing the castle over to your sister. You ask for the bad press, Vlad."  
  
He looked down at the latest edition of  _Vampirism Today_  on the desk and sighed. It had been ten years since that stupid comic had come to the attention of the F. Right Party – 'The Painfully Mundane Adventures of Count Boremal' – and every newspaper in the Western Hemisphere still invariably referred to him as His Blandness, after the main character.  
  
The Count watched him for a long moment, before pulling his cloak around him,  
  
"I'll bring you something back."

* * *

"A vampire comic, fair enough," Caleb said, biting into his sandwich. "I can understand that, you wanted to be an artist. But," he shook his head, "I still cannot believe you've got your own vampire cape!"

"I told you," Robin said around a mouthful of food, "I'm a vampire freak." Caleb smirked and Robin went on, "Nah. I was proper into it when I was a kid. I actually believed my best mate was a vampire for a while."  
  
"Okay, now I know you're taking the mick."  
  
"It's true!" Robin protested, slurping at the ketchup that had fallen on the back of his hand. "He was from Transylvania and they lived up in Stokely Castle. When they moved back, I told my mam he was going to come for me when he got his," he hooked his fingers in the air, "full powers and bite me. So we could be together forever."  
  
He shook his head, grin slipping slightly, "And I wondered why he never so much as wrote to me." The memory was still painful, the way he'd come home from school day after day, sure that today would be the day he'd get a letter. The day Vlad would ring him. He never had.  
  
"That's nothing," Caleb replied before the mood had chance to sink any further. "When I was seventeen I seriously accused my missus' old man of being a serial killer because he was digging up the back patio. And I wondered why she wanted to go on a break."  
  
"It's the curse of being a horror geek," Robin said, smiling.  
  
Caleb clinked their coke cans together.

"I'll drink to that."

* * *

"Shouldn't you be thinking about going to bed?"

Myra sneered at Vlad, "It's night and I'm a vampire." She stressed the words, over-enunciating them, as if to a child.  
  
"Not quite," Vlad pointed out, smirking at the scowl he got in return. "And, you've got school in the morning."  
  
Myra shook her head, the edges of her spiked hair brushing against the back of the seat rest. "If you really think I'm going to that breather cesspit, well," she shrugged, "you're even more of an idiot than you look."  
  
Vlad took in her multiple piercings, her glossy black fingernails, filed into sharp points, and the 666 she'd had scored into the back of her neck by a warlock from Lithuania the previous summer, and wondered if he really was barking mad. On paper it had looked the perfect solution; what better way to prove a modern breather education wasn't detrimental than testing it out? Who better to act as a guinea pig than the Grand High Vampire's niece?  
  
The problem was that there was nothing 2D about Myra. He would be lucky if Myra managed a full day without killing someone.  
  
"Anyway," Myra sniffed, taking the remote control from his side and changing the channel, "Mum said I could stay up as late as I wanted."  
  
"Your mum's not here," Vlad shot back. Ingrid's parenting style, in his opinion, left a lot to be desired. "And nor is your granddad," he went on – the Count being a complete and total pushover when it came to Myra – "so you have to do what I say."  
  
"Yeah, right," Myra scoffed, slouching further back into the sofa, settling on Horror Zone, "In your dreams." Before he could speak she said, "You can shut up now, I want to watch this." She gestured at the screen, "This guy is awesome."  
  
"I thought you hated breathers."  
  
Myra looked at him pityingly. "My  _dad_  was a breather. What I hate are losers, like you." She looked back at the screen, admiration on her face like he had never seen her direct at anything other than obscenely expensive caskets. "If more breathers were like him I'd go to school for free."  
  
Vlad sipped at his soya blood – it really did taste worse every day – and followed her gaze to the television curiously, whoever it was would have to be something pretty special to earn praise like that from Myra. What he saw had him choking and coughing, soya blood going everywhere, as Myra watched on in dispassionate amusement.  
  
_Robin_.

* * *

"Robin!" Mrs. Branagh said the moment he came through the front door, "Oh, thank God you're home!"

"What's wrong?" He asked in panic, taking in the worried looks on his parents' faces. "Where's Imelda?"  
  
"We can't get hold of her, we've been ringing and ringing," Mrs. Branagh said, looking tearful.  
  
He swallowed, feeling faint, like all the blood in his body had turned to ice. "Have you rang the police?"  
  
"We didn't know whether to or not." Mr. Branagh said, and Robin was suddenly aware of how old his dad looked; how old both his parents looked. "We waited for you."  
  
"Right," he nodded numbly, fumbling in his pocket for his mobile phone. It was 2am and she should have been home at 10. He dialled and listened to the tone anxiously, feeling sick.

Anything could have happened.

* * *

* * *

Vlad locked the door, hesitating a moment before pushing his dresser in front of it for good measure. He might not be able to keep Ingrid and his dad out, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about Myra or Renfield for a few hours.

Satisfied it was secure, he crouched down and heaved the trunk he never opened out from under the bed. Fumbling with the lock, he was overcome with the knowledge that what he was about to do was a really stupid idea, that he had locked it all away for a very good reason. Before he had time to come to his senses the clasps were undone, and he was staring down at all of the  _stuff_  he had never had chance to give back to Robin.  
  
Robin's rugby jersey and his favourite T-shirt. His wrist cuff and his history exercise book. He had often wondered how much trouble Robin had got in for 'losing' that book, and whether the other boy had ever remembered where it really was. He sifted through the box, through Robin's old sketchbook and his own diaries, past photographs and faded slips of paper full of notes written during double maths on Tuesday afternoons, until his hand finally closed around what he had been looking for.  
  
He undid the ribbon binding the envelopes together, fingers trembling as he picked at the knot. They scattered across his lap, all the dozens of letters he had never sent to Robin. And, there, in the middle was the one letter Robin had sent him. Or, at least, the only one that had ever reached him. The address had been scored out multiple times, taking it right across Europe to Transylvania.  
  
Downstairs he could hear Myra banging about, doing what he imagined it better all round if he didn't know, and he just sat staring at it for a long moment. He could still remember the night he had woken up to find it lying across his place setting at the dining room table, the ultimatum Granny Westenra had given him. The look of disgust that had passed across Ingrid's face when he had finally given in and agreed to make a sacrifice for the good of his people.  
  
Granny had been right, of course. It had been hard enough to win support as it was. He had been too young, too weak, too much of a wimpire. If the opposition had known about Robin, as Granny had once crowed in delight, they would have torn the boy limb from limb, anything to rile him into becoming a 'proper' vampire.  
  
Not that it had made staying away any easier.  
  
He scanned Robin's scruffy handwriting, searching for the passage he had read so many times he could recite it word for word.  
  
"I know that you must be really busy and everything and you've probably got loads of new friends now that you're the top vampire, but you'll always be my best friend, Vlad. Always. I miss you so much; nothing's the same without you. I've done something stupid, really really stupid and I wish you were here (or, even better, I was there!) so I could speak to you. You always knew what to say to make everything seem better. Everything was just better when you were here.  
  
If you get this please write back, even if it's just to tell me to leave you alone,  
  
Love, Robin."  
  
Vlad shut his eyes and let his head fall back against his bed post, his fingers clenching around the paper. He had loved Robin then and, if the desperate ache that never left him could mean anything for a heartless vampire, he still loved him now.  
  
But what hurt - what really hurt – he thought as he refolded the yellowing paper, was the knowledge that once, if only for a short while, Robin had loved him back.

* * *

"No she doesn't do this sort of thing often!" Robin snapped. "What are you trying to say?"

"He's just doing his job," Mrs. Branagh said placatingly.  
  
P.C. Brown nodded, smugly Robin thought, and flipped open his notebook. "With respect, Sir, kids get up to all sorts behind their parents' backs these days."  
  
He was just about to give the man a piece of his mind when the front door slammed, and Robin was up in an instant, making for the hallway. "Imelda? Is that you?" He took in her sheepish expression and pulled her into a hug. "Oh, thank God."  
  
Imelda struggled against him, "Get off me, you freak!"  
  
He let go, reluctantly, his parents and P.C. Brown piling into the cramped hallway. "Where have you been?" Robin asked anxiously, noting how pale and tired she looked. "It's three in the morning!"  
  
"Out," she shrugged, not meeting his gaze. "It's none of your business."  
  
P.C. Brown squirmed and snapped his notebook shut, "Well, I'll be off then." Mrs. Branagh showed him out as Robin glared at Imelda,  
  
"None of my business…" He said incredulously, shaking his head, "I've been worried sick! What were you thinking!"  
  
"I went to the park with David, alright?" She inspected her fingernails, trying to look like she didn't care what he thought. "We lost track of time."  
  
"For five hours!" He sputtered, knowing it would only make things worse but unable to keep quiet. "What 'ave I told you! How can I make it any clearer to you? All it takes is one time." He shook his head, "That's it; you're not seeing him again. Ever. And," she scowled at him and he yelled, "You're grounded!" He floundered for a moment, trying to think of something more serious, settling on, "For a month!"  
  
She looked him up and down, sneering defiantly. "Whatever. I'll move in with my mum."  
  
"Don't be stupid," he scoffed. Kelsey had always been less than useless.  
  
Imelda took it, like most things he said, the wrong way.

"I can if I want to. She said so." She glowered up at him, jabbing a finger at his chest, "It was you she didn't want!"  
  
His parents were watching expectantly, no doubt waiting to tell him he should have dealt with this, and he took a deep breath before speaking. "Go to your room. Now." For a long moment she did nothing but glare at him, and he was certain she was going to make a bigger scene and point out how it wasn't his house to order her about in. Then, finally, against all his expectations she turned and stomped up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.  
  
"You shouldn't let her get her own way all the time," Mr. Branagh said, putting a hand on his shoulder.  
  
Mrs. Branagh nodded, looking up the empty staircase, "Your father's right."  
  
Robin just shook his head and looked away, "Was I ever this bad?"

* * *

"I don't know why you bothered," Ingrid said, shaking her head. "He'll never drink it."

"He won't know he until it's too late," the Count smirked. "And once he's tried this," he shook the flask he was carrying, "he'll never go back to that soya rubbish. With real blood in his veins there's no way he'll stand back and let his - our - name be dragged through the dirt!"  
  
Ingrid pushed the castle door open. She personally thought it a pointless crusade. Vlad could literally have blood on tap should he want it, could snap his fingers and have every firstborn in Transylvania slaughtered. The fact he preferred to survive on multivitamins and pulverised vegetables just proved what she'd always known; he was a stubborn little fool. In answer she said,  
  
"He'll have a fit when he finds out where it came from."  
  
"Well he's not going to find out, is he?" The Count snapped. "It's not like I did them any permanent damage. It was a suck and spit job!" He grinned, dropping down into his throne.  
  
Ingrid raised an eyebrow and made for the crypt,  
  
"It's your funeral."

* * *

Robin apologised in the morning, desperate for Imelda to talk to him, "I'm sorry I yelled at you last night."

Imelda shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze.  
  
"I was just so worried about you."  
  
"Alright, stop going on about it!" she snapped in response. "I won't do it again."  
  
Robin tried to drop it and concentrate on his breakfast. His parents were exchanging knowing looks that were putting him on edge. He was doing the best job he could. Imelda got up to put her dish in the sink and he caught sight of a dark mark on her neck.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"What's what?"  
  
He got up and put a hand on her shoulder, peering at it closely, ignoring the expression of disgust on her face. "It looks like a bite," he said, frowning.  
  
She moved to the mirror, pressing fingers to it gingerly. When it didn't hurt she shrugged and picked her school bag up, "Who knows? Maybe it was a vampire." She laughed, Mr. and Mrs. Branagh grinning.  
  
Robin pulled a face, "I was being serious."  
  
"So was I," Imelda said mockingly. At the look on his face she shook her head, and sighed, "I'll see you later." He pretended not to hear the muttered "loser" as the front door slammed behind her.

* * *

"You owe me!" Myra scowled at Vlad, flinging her school bag across the room. "You owe me so much right now."

"I take it you had a nice day at school then?"  
  
She glowered and dropped into a seat at the table. Ingrid moved to sit opposite her, asking in concern, "What happened?"  
  
"That stupid, stuck up cow made me take my eyebrow bars out. Look!" Myra hissed, holding out a palm full of metal. "And I have to cut my fingernails! She even said I needed a," she hooked the fingers of her left hand in the air, expression murderous, "'sensible' haircut."  
  
"It is a bit extreme," Vlad said, eyeing up her Mohawk in consideration. She was the sort of kid even the blood thirstiest vampire would cross the road to avoid.  
  
"That's not even the worst of it," she went on, ignoring him in favour of Ingrid, "they've paired me up with this total drip; I have to, like, speak to her and everything." She picked up a plate from the table and threw it across the room in temper. "She's the biggest loser I have ever met. Even worse than His Blandness, himself."  
  
"You do know," Vlad said coldly, "I could have you executed for saying that."  
  
"You do know," Myra said mockingly, "I could get a lot of money for this." She reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a hardback journal that looked horribly familiar. The 'Property of Vladimir Dracula' scrawled across the front only served to confirm his fears.  
  
"That's mine!" He reached across the table, trying to grab it, "Give it back!" He had known it had been a royally stupid idea to leave that box unlocked. At least, relief washed over him as the edge of the paper dug through the thin material of his shirt pocket, the most important thing was safe from her prying eyes.  
  
Ingrid took it before he had chance to reclaim the thing and hit him across the back of the head with it. "I'll have that." She smirked at him, "Could do with a good laugh. And, Myra, sweetheart," she fixed her with a stern look, "don't you dare let that woman dictate what you do." She smiled, "If you get expelled, Uncle Vladdy here will still have to pay you."  
  
"Children," the Count whined, emerging from the doorway leading to the crypt, "Why can't you argue properly? Where's the violence, the bloodshed?" He shook his head, "Have I taught you nothing?"  
  
Myra just grinned and started putting her jewellery back in. Vlad folded his arms across his chest and pulled a face as Renfield put his customary liquid lunch down in front of him.  
  
Sometimes his unlife really sucked.

* * *

* * *

Vlad furrowed his brow as he sipped at his blood, sniffing deeply. It tasted different. Richer, smoother,  _better_. He took a larger mouthful, barely restraining a moan as the liquid slid down his throat.  
  
Myra pulled a face, "That good, huh?" She shook her head, "Do I even want to know what you're thinking about?"  
  
He glared at her, but didn't answer, draining his glass in two swallows. When he set it down, head spinning, it was only for the Count to refill it.  
  
"Wh-what's in it?" He managed to stutter, clenching his fingers into the table top in an effort not to just drain the second glass in a single gulp.  
  
"Stop worrying, Vlad," the Count said soothingly. "It's good for you, I promise."  
  
Yeah, he thought dimly as he reached for the glass, seemingly without any command from his brain, anything that felt this good this had to be…

Except he was having trouble keeping control of himself. Remembering why he should even want to.

A few hours later he found himself at a Council meeting, so on edge his teeth ached as he listened to the usual suspects droning on.

"Perhaps His Blandness would like to give us his own interpretation of events," Minister Ivaneski sneered, doing his best to goad him into action.

Normally Vlad would not have had a problem ignoring it but tonight, with his veins feeling like they were on fire, his thoughts so scattered he wasn't even sure which events the other vampire was referring to, he couldn't.  
  
"Say that again, Ivaneski," he said, low and threatening.  
  
Bertrand raised an eyebrow, some of the other ministers leaned forward, expectant. Ivanevski, having attended his inauguration speech where he had broken all precedent and promised to always strive to be calm and rational, and not to resort to violence, just smirked.  
  
"I said, perhaps His Blandness would like to give us his own interpretation of events."  
  
In an instant Vlad was out of his seat, one hand around Ivaneski's throat, pressing him back against the lectern with his fangs bared. "I thought that was what you said." He pressed harder, enjoying the flash of fear in the older vampire's eyes. "Say it again and, trust me," he hissed, "it'll be the last thing you ever do."  
  
He let go and Ivaneski scrambled backwards, palms outward in placation, "Yes, Your Grandness. Of course, Your Grandness. Please forgive me."  
  
Vlad looked around the chamber, taking in the shocked expressions on every single face, and suddenly felt sick. He looked down at his hand, the hand he had just had wrapped around Ivaneski's throat, and blanched. This wasn't him, wasn't what he did.  
  
He took a deep, if unnecessary breath, and tried to look like he was in control of himself, wishing that his head wasn't still spinning and his knees didn't feel like they were about to give out on him.  
  
"Council is adjourned."

* * *

"I saw you the other day," Paul said, piling more cake onto his plate, "down by the shop with some girl with hair out 'ere." He held a hand a foot above his head, grinning.

Imelda pulled a face, "She's a total weirdo. I have to," she hooked her fingers in the air, "look after her 'cos she's new to the school and I know what it's like." She shook her head, "She's, like, obsessed with dad's stupid show. Even thinks he's fit." She screwed her face up in disgust.  
  
"Hear that Robbo?" Ian laughed, oblivious to the jam and butter icing dripping down his Stokely Dragons training shirt. "You've got a fan!"  
  
"What's this?" Chloe asked, interrupting Jonno who was busy passing around photos of their latest holiday.  
  
"Some girl in Imelda's class fancies Robin," Paul answered, putting his plate down so his own son, Josh, could scramble onto his lap.  
  
"Yeah," Imelda said, "Myra Count, she's the one who wanted to know if you had any copies of that comic left."  
  
"Myra Count," Paul echoed, jaw dropping. "Not Ingrid Count's daughter?"  
  
"How should I know?" Imelda snapped.  
  
"Makes sense though," Ian said, nudging his brother. "The only person who ever did fancy Robin was a Count. Must run in the family."  
  
"My mum must have fancied him," Myra said, tone suggesting she had no idea how.  
  
"Nah," Ian shook his head, swallowing another mouthful of cake, "Your mam was just blind drunk," Robin scowled but Ian ignored it, "Vlad Count on the other hand," he smirked, "he used to 'ave dreams about your dad in forests and everything." At the incredulous look on Imelda's face he went on,  
  
"Serious now, mind. He was like your dad's shadow."  
  
"Vlad never fancied me," Robin said, shaking his head and blushing. "We were just friends."  
  
"Yeah, right," Chloe scoffed. "He used to follow you around like a lost puppy."  
  
"He had the biggest crush on you," Jonno said, brushing cake crumbs off the the sleeve of his expensive suit. "Remember that time you came round mine for tea? I thought he was literally going to stab me or something, the look he gave me."  
  
Robin said nothing. He really didn't want to have to admit that once, a long time ago, he had thought that Vlad had fancied him too. Had spent hours sat alone in his bedroom analysing every word Vlad had ever said to him, every look he'd ever given him. Vlad had even kissed him once, said they should practice for when they met a girl who didn't think them scum. Looking back, at the mad schemes he had always been pulling off, he was convinced that that was all it had been to Vlad. Just, at the time, he had been as convinced of Vlad's feelings as he had his vampire status. Said it all really.  
  
"I always thought," Ian said, slurping at the tea Mrs. Branagh had just pressed into his hand, "you two were made for each other. Couldn't believe it when Kelsey's old man turned up on the doorstep!"  
  
Mr. Branagh, who had just entered the room, nodded as he squeezed onto the sofa. "I don't think any of us could! I thought, he must have the wrong one. It must be one of the twins."  
  
"Yes," Robin grimaced. "We've heard it all before."  
  
"But I don't mind hearing it again," Imelda grinned.  
  
"Oh, it was terrible," Mrs. Branagh said. "He had Robin by the throat, threatened to snap his spine in two."  
  
"And the rest!" Paul grinned, "He said he was going to rip his you-know-what off."  
  
"What's a you-know-what, daddy?" Josh lisped and everybody but Robin laughed. He had never been able to see the hilarity in a six foot four rugby player threatening to remove his extremities for having laid a finger on his  _innocent_  daughter.  
  
"Are you still planning on moving in with your mam?" Ian asked eventually, when the laughter had subsided. Robin waited, scarcely daring to breathe, for Imelda's answer. The thought made him feel sick.  
  
"Dunno," Imelda shrugged, "I'm staying with her this weekend. Like a trial or something."  
  
"Yeah, well, a word of warning," Paul said, giving Robin a sympathetic look – Robin supposed it was because he had children of his own and understood exactly how he was feeling – "you'd better love sleepless nights and sticky fingers." He wiped at Josh's jam smeared face with a tissue, "'cos a house full of screaming kids is an experience, let me tell you!"  
  
Imelda scowled and Robin put his plate down, no longer hungry. All he could do was hope.

* * *

"Uncle Vlad? You in here?"

Vlad grimaced, clutching tighter at his blanket and Robin's cape, willing her to just go away. He knew he should have had Renfield lock him in a coffin.  
  
"Come on, stop being such a total wimpire and open the door!"  
  
He riled at that, but forced himself to stay still, sweat beading across his brow and soaking into his shirt with the effort. They'd been made to watch a video once, back when he was at Stokely Grammar, of how it felt to come off drugs; the shaking and sweating and cramps. It was exactly how he felt. Ingrid had shrugged and said it was his own fault for not giving in sooner and getting the first wave of blood lust out of the way.  
  
His dad had had to pull him off of her before he did any serious damage.  
  
The door opened and Myra peered around it, sighing in exasperation. "Why don't you just go out and bite someone? I told you, there's this total drip of a girl at school nobody would miss."  
  
"Get out!"  
  
"Alright, alright, keep your hair on, Your Blandness."  
  
Before he even had chance to think he had her crowded back against the door, fangs on show. She shrank back, eyes widening in fear. It was enough to bring him to his senses,  
  
"I'm sorry." He pressed a hand to his forehead, shakily making his way back to his bed, sinking down onto it gratefully, and clutching Robin's cape back to his chest. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Myra stood still for a long moment; he could hear her heartbeat as it slowly returned to normal speed. "No," she started, "it's okay. Really, it's okay. It's what you should do."  
  
"What did you want?" Vlad asked, quietly.  
  
"I just, er, I wanted to tell you-" She bit her lip. "You know what, I don't think now is the right time."  
  
Vlad sat up, wincing with the effort, "No, I'm listening. Tell me now. I didn't mean that, just then. You know that." He couldn't keep the pleading out of his voice. The thought of someone being afraid of him was awful. It was the very reason he had fought for so hard, for so long, against becoming a true vampire.  
  
Cautiously, Myra inched closer to him, holding what looked like a rolled up magazine out to him. He took it carefully and smoothed it out, pulling a face as he took in the front cover.  _The Painfully Mundane Adventures of Count Boremal_. He had always meant to read it, but had never been able to stomach it. The weedy vampire cowering from his own shadow even looked like him.  
  
"What am I supposed to do with this?" He hissed, horribly aware of the way his fangs had elongated with his anger.  
  
"I-" Myra looked away then back at his face and Vlad fixed her with a commanding gaze. "I know who drew it."  
  
Vlad looked down at the cover again. The newspapers had speculated long and hard on who exactly 'Bram Bannerworth' was. A member of the F. Right Party Vampirism Today had said, a general in the Freedom Corps said the Transylvania Times. The Sunblock, always courting controversy, had even suggested it was a breather with inside knowledge. Nothing had ever been proven either way.  
  
"Who?" He asked eventually when no further information was fore coming, too much power behind the word for Myra to even think about keeping quiet.  
  
"Imelda's dad." Her words were slow, eyes slightly glazed as he held her gaze, "That guy off TV, the one you got all upset over. Robin Branagh."

* * *

* * *

_These dinosaurians," Count Boremal asked, gesturing at the huge museum display, "are you quite sure they're extinct, Bannerworth?"_

_"Quite sure, Your Blandness," Bannerworth said stiffly, using the Count's distraction to fix the collar of his cape so it lay properly across the swell of his cheekbone.  
  
"Look at the size of it, Bannerworth," the Count arched his neck back, looking up at the head of the beast, "it could crush a vampire underfoot without breaking a sweat."  
  
"Indeed, Your Blandness."  
  
"I don't like it at all, Bannerworth," The Count shook his head, eyes fearful. "Not at all."  
  
"And what would you suggest I do, Your Blandness? Boil it down for glue?"  
  
"Could you really do that?"  
  
Bannerworth closed his eyes, as if pained. "No, Your Blandness."  
  
"Oh." The Count looked disappointed. A young couple walked past at that moment, hand in hand, pausing to admire the massive skeleton and read the information card, and the Count's eyes lit up. "That's it, Bannerworth! The blighter'll have a dashed hard time stomping on the both of us!"  
  
"With respect, Your Blandness," Bannerworth said calmly, "it has been dead some considerable time."  
  
The Count waved a hand dismissively. "So have I, Bannerworth, so have I. Doesn't dampen the spring in one's step, what? How about it then?" He held his hand out shyly, peering up at Bannerworth through lowered lashes.  
  
Bannerworth sighed deeply, but took the proffered hand. "As you wish, Your Blandness."  
  
As they left the exhibition room, the Count pressed far closer to Bannerworth's side than was strictly necessary, he paused for a moment to grin up at the skeleton, squeezing his hand tighter. "I do so love these educational visits, Bannerworth!"_  
  
Vlad put the comic down carefully, fighting back the threatening pinprick of tears. He had always supposed he'd been made to look an incompetent fool; grey and boring and spineless. Count Boremal was incompetent certainly, but less of a characterless imbecile than a lovable dimwit with a passion for cuddly rabbits (" _They're not for drinking, Bannerworth. They hop about all over the place, makes for terrible indigestion._ ") and schemes, of varying levels of stupidity, to get Bannerworth into his coffin.  
  
Which really, he breathed deeply at the fabric of Robin's cape – still balled up next to his pillow – and imagined he could still smell Robin on it, translated into him scheming to get Robin into his coffin. If he had ever got past the third page he'd have known it was by Robin. Not only did Bannerworth look like him, right down to the sprinkling of freckles across his nose, it was full of all their stupid in-jokes. The silly nicknames they had made up for their classmates, and his own pitiful attempts to recite vampire lore with anything approaching accuracy.  
  
He even remembered where that page had come from, his fearful questioning after watching  _Jurassic Park_  for the first time in the Branagh's living room. Robin had teased him mercilessly for weeks about the scary  _dinosaurians_  hiding under his bed and in his closet. It was after one such session, with Robin bragging and boasting about how he was never scared of anything and the best at everything, that he had screwed up all his courage and asked Robin to kiss him. Because he had never kissed anyone and he didn't want to look stupid when he finally met a girl who wanted to.  
  
Robin had blushed and joked and wrung his hands together but – finally – had agreed. His lips had been soft and warm; his mouth had tasted of the chocolate and sweets he had always seemed to be eating. His dark eyes had been almost black when he had finally pulled away, his fingers trembling ever so slightly with nerves where they had come to rest against his cheek. It had been nowhere near what Vlad had wanted and everything he had ever dreamed of.  
  
It took him a long time to fall asleep that day and, when he did, his dreams were plagued with endless 'what-if's and 'might-have-been's.

* * *

"If you don't like it, or you just want to come home, ring me and I'll pick you up. Any time, day or night. I don't mind."

"What if you're in work?" Imelda said dryly, unclasping her seatbelt.  
  
"Then," Robin said seriously, "ring me anyway and I'll come get you as soon as I can."  
  
"I was joking. There is no way I'm going to be ringing you, it's only for a week."  
  
"I love you. You do know that, don't you?"  
  
Imelda pulled a face and opened the car door. "See you on Friday."

* * *

"What do you want?" Vlad scowled at the vampire in front of him, his newly awakened vampiric impulses telling him to throw him from the tower window and be done with it.

"Vladdy," Stanislav started, sitting on the bed next to him. "Don't be like that. Haven't you missed me?"  
  
"No," Vlad shook his head, surprised to realise it was true. He had barely even thought of him.  
  
"Oh," Stanislav looked disappointed. "Well, I've missed you."  
  
Vlad shrugged, "Have you?"  
  
"Yeah," he grinned, "I've missed you real bad. I heard all about what you did at Council, I always knew you had it in you!" He smirked lecherously, "I can think of something else you can have in you too."  
  
"Ugh, just go away," Vlad pulled a face. What had he ever seen in him? "And don't bother coming back."  
  
"You heard him," Ingrid appeared behind him, whispering in Stanislav's ear. "I wouldn't cross His Grandness if I were you. Not if you like your unlife."  
  
Stanislav was on his feet faster than Vlad had ever seen him move, bowing and 'yes, Your Grandness'-ing for all he was worth, before disappearing. He smiled at Ingrid,  
  
"I never thought I'd hear you call me that."  
  
"Yeah, well," Ingrid said, handing him the bowl full of soya blood broth she'd brought for him, "don't get used to it."  
  
He grimaced as he tried a spoonful. If he had thought it tasted bad before, it was so much worse now he had the real thing to compare it to.  
  
"Why don't you try animal blood, Vlad?" Ingrid asked, taking Stanislav's space on the bed. "You can't live off that stuff forever, it'll kill you."  
  
"I'm already dead," Vlad said, but there was no bite in it.  
  
"I know it's scary at first – I've been there – but you do learn to control it." She sighed, "You've already proven that you're not going to go and force yourself on Branagh the second real blood passes your lips."  
  
Vlad looked away, at the television he had dragged up from the guest crypt. Robin was grinning at the camera, the high collar of the cape Vlad recognised as one of his own framing his face, and his dark hair gelled artfully into the kind of style he could no longer manage without a trustworthy audience. He looked so beautiful it was all he could do not to just give in and turn up on the Branagh's doorstep unannounced. Out loud he just said,  
  
"But I wanted to."

* * *

"Do you always leave a mess like that?"

"Like what?" Imelda asked frowning, glancing back at the dishes she had just piled against the kitchen worktop.  
  
"Don't you wash anything up after you?"  
  
She shrugged, "Dad does it."  
  
Kelsey shook her head in exasperation, holding one of the boys against her hip, another tugging impatiently at her arm. "Well, if you think I am, you've got another thing coming." She smiled then, trying to lighten the tone, "Your dad's just a loser."  
  
Imelda looked at her searchingly for a moment, before scowling and grinding out, "My dad is not a loser."

* * *

"Is Imelda in?"

Mrs. Branagh took in the girl's hair and piercings with a start, but smiled back politely. "She's not, I'm sorry. She's staying with her mum for a few days."  
  
"Oh," the girl said, looking disappointed, "only she said I could borrow a book for my class project. It's on vampires you see, and I really don't know anything about them."  
  
"Well, if it's vampires you want to know about," Mrs. Branagh said, encouraged by the grin spreading across the girl's face, "I know just the person." She smiled at Myra and called,  
  
"Robin!"

Half hour later Robin found himself trapped on his parents' sofa with a girl literally young enough to be his daughter.

"I always watch your show," Myra said, watching him with an intensity Robin found uncomfortable. The twins had only been slightly exaggerating when they had said the only person to fancy him was Vlad. Truth was he couldn't remember anyone ever having properly fancying him. Kelsey had only ever looked at him to make her ex-boyfriend jealous, and the few individuals he had managed to date for longer than a few weeks had always told him – with greater frequency than he sometimes thought his self-esteem could take – that it was what was on the inside that mattered.

"Yeah?" He managed eventually, inching further away from her on the sofa, wishing he wasn't blushing like a schoolgirl.  
  
She nodded solemnly, staring up at him for a long moment before seeming to shake herself out of it. "Yeah, with my Uncle Vlad. He says he used to go to school with you."  
  
"V-Vlad?"  
  
"Do you remember him?"  
  
Robin looked at his hands. Remember him? Had there ever been a day gone by when he hadn't thought about Vlad? Out loud he said, carefully, "He's in Stokely?"  
  
She grinned, the metal bar through her lower lip twitching, "You should come up and see him. He would love that." She looked away, so Robin couldn't gauge her expression. "He's not been himself lately, it would really cheer him up. Please say you will."  
  
He found himself nodding before he could stop himself, hating the way he could already feel the thrill of anticipation at the thought of seeing Vlad again. Vlad had made it more than clear what he felt for him: nothing.  
  
"Why don't you come round on Wednesday at, say, seven? I know it's your night off on Wednesday, every third of the month, right?"  
  
Robin blinked; she was right. She really must follow the show.  
  
She smiled and stood up, looking very pleased with herself. "And thanks for letting me lend this," she waved his copy of 'Blood Sucking Fiends: Friend or Foe', "it'll come in useful, I'm sure."  
  
"Yeah, no problem," he murmured faintly, still not entirely convinced he wasn't dreaming.  
  
"Oh, and," she hesitated in the doorway, biting at her lip, "you should really wear that shirt you wore to present ' _Mark of the Vampire'_. It's just- I mean, it's really- you know-" she blushed and left the room. He slumped back into the sofa as he heard his mam letting her out.  
  
He was definitely dreaming.

* * *

* * *

"What," Myra looked at Vlad in horror, "are you doing?"

Vlad looked down at his half finished jigsaw puzzle; a sun drenched landscape. It was coming along well. He told her as such, "It's only taken me three hours so far."  
  
Myra, clearly dissatisfied with his answer, shook her head incredulously. "Three hours!"  
  
"That's really good," Vlad said defensively.  
  
"Just get dressed."  
  
"I don't take orders from you," Vlad muttered, attempting to fit a piece of his jigsaw in dismissal. It didn't fit – in spite of his best efforts to force it – and he grimaced at the way Myra was sniggering at him.  
  
"Fine!" He got up, glaring first at the guilty piece of cardboard, then at his niece. "But I'm only doing it because I want to."  
  
Her smirking 'whatever' followed him upstairs.

* * *

"Robin," Mrs. Branagh started kindly, "watching it won't make it ring."

Robin sighed, "I know. I can't help it though." He went on, bitterly, "Who knows what Kelsey is letting her do."  
  
"Kelsey's grown up a lot in the last few years. I often see her at knitting circle."  
  
"Kelsey knits!" Robin pulled a face. He hadn't known Kelsey was capable of doing anything other than sneering disdainfully down her surgically altered nose.  
  
"No," Mrs. Branagh admitted. "She's working at the crèche."  
  
"Doesn't she worry she might snap a nail?" Robin asked, picking up his father's discarded newspaper in an attempt to distract himself from his mobile phone, "I seem to remember that was always one of her main concerns in life."  
  
Mrs. Branagh fixed him with the look, the one Robin recognised as saying you're too old to be so petty, and he pretended to be oblivious and intently interested in an article on communal composting. His mother conceded graciously and changed the subject,  
  
"I was thinking we might have stew for tea, how does that sound?"  
  
He caught himself from wrinkling his nose just in time. It was one of those things about getting older – kidding yourself you actually liked food that was good for you. "Yeah, sounds great." He was just wondering if there would be time to nip to town and get something he could smuggle upstairs without attracting his mother's suspicion, when he remembered that he already had a get out free card.  
  
"Actually," he focussed harder on the newspaper, "I'm going out tonight."  
  
"On a date?" Mrs. Branagh asked, beaming at him.  
  
"No. Just out. With a friend."  
  
"Oh, Robin, I'm so happy for you. I can't remember the last time you went on a date!"  
  
"It's not a date," Robin whined, newspaper forgotten.  
  
Mrs. Branagh just grinned, "I'll iron your shirt."

* * *

"I don't see," Vlad said, tugging at the stiff collar of his shirt, "what the point is. They're not coming to see me."

Ingrid gave him a look that suggested he was being even more of a cretin than usual. "A true vampire doesn't take anything at face value." At Vlad's confused look she heaved a sigh, "She's my daughter. She was lying to you."  
  
Vlad thought about it for a moment; it made sense. "Who is coming then?" He asked finally, wishing – not for the first time – he still had a reflection with which to gauge where on the scale of bad hair day-dom he currently was.  
  
Ingrid smirked, putting the final touch to her dead flower arrangement, and said, "Branagh."  
  
"For a moment there," Vlad said, looking at her in shock, "it sounded like you said 'Branagh'. As in Robin Branagh."  
  
"At least your hearing isn't impaired," Ingrid mused, "perhaps you could use that as this year's campaign slogan. 'Useless, Pathetic, Disgrace to the Vampiric Race. But, at least, he can hear your complaints.' Has a certain ring to it, don't you think?"  
  
"No." Vlad scowled. "And stop trying to change the subject! Robin can't just come here. What will I do?" His tone lowered, "What if I try and hurt him?"  
  
"Don't be such a wimpire, Vlad. Take a risk. It won't kill you."  
  
"It's not me I'm worried about!"  
  
Ingrid gave him a pitying look. "I read that ode to Branagh you call a diary. Trust me, the only thing Branagh has to fear from you is the painful drivel you try and pass off as poetry."  
  
"That was private!"  
  
"Vampire," Ingrid stated casually, pointing at herself. "Why would I care?"  
  
Vlad opened his mouth to answer but Ingrid held up a hand, sniffing the air. "Too late. He's here."

* * *

Robin shifted from foot to foot in front of the great wooden door, lifting a hand before dropping it back to his side. What if he was being set up and Vlad was just going to laugh in his face? He hadn't heard a word from Vlad in fifteen years, why would he suddenly want to see him now?

But then, he thought, what about Andrew Davies? The boy hadn't said a civil word to him all the way through school yet he was acting like they had been best mates every time he saw him. If time could do that to Davies it would have had to make Vlad at least indifferent to seeing him again. He hoped.  
  
He was still fidgeting indecisively when the door opened and, after blinking to accustom his eyesight to the gloom, Robin swallowed harshly. Vlad was stood in front of him, one hand curled around the edge of the door, a shy smile across his face making him look years younger than Robin knew he was. They stared at each other for a long moment, Robin noting the expensive cut of Vlad's clothing and deciding the Romanian government must pay well, before Vlad took a step back and motioned him in.  
  
Once inside Vlad laid that impossibly pale hand on his arm and steered him through to the sitting room, murmuring something about privacy. Robin kept his own gaze on anything but Vlad and tried to control the wild beating of his heart at the touch, terrified that Vlad could somehow tell the effect he was having on him.  
  
Vlad showed no sign of noticing and, to Robin's dismay, when the hand was finally removed instead of relief all he felt was loss.

* * *

Vlad forced himself to let go of Robin's arm and sat as far away as he could, in an attempt to keep temptation at bay. He could hear Robin's heart thumping against his chest and he clenched his fingernails into his palm, desperately trying to ignore the effect it was having on him.

He took a deep breath and instantly wished he hadn't. Robin even smelled the same.  
  
They made awkward small talk about Stokely Grammar, the upcoming election and the weather until dinner al a Renfield arrived. As soon as he had bowed and simpered his way back through the door they pulled matching faces at the gloop he had seen fit to prepare for the occasion, grinning at each other as they simultaneously pushed the plates away and, suddenly, it was like fifteen years had never happened.  
  
"I can't believe it," Robin said, looking pointedly at his untouched food. "Renfield's gotten worse!"  
  
"Yeah," Vlad grinned back, "and this is for a special occasion."  
  
"Obviously," Robin smirked in a way that made Vlad inordinately glad he had had the foresight to put space between them, "This is what I keep trying to tell people. It's like an honour to be in my company."  
  
"You've gotten more sarcastic."  
  
Robin shrugged and smiled at him, "I was only learning the craft last time you saw me. Now I'm a master."  
  
"You're so sad."  
  
"So I'm told."  
  
Vlad shook his head and grinned happily as Robin gave him a highly condensed, intensely funny overview of the last fifteen years starting with "Kelsey couldn't resist me. Who can blame her?", pausing to reflect "you learn that young children and endangered species aren't the best combination", and ending with "Oh my God, I'm going to be thirty."  
  
"You don't look it," Vlad said placatingly, his jaw aching from laughing so much.  
  
"You barely look old enough to drink!" Robin responded, his dark eyes looking at him appraisingly. "I don't know how you do it but, if you could bottle it, you'd be a millionaire!"  
  
Vlad faltered slightly, some of the happy glow draining away. Robin knew. He knew that Robin knew. Hypnosis couldn't work on someone you were in love with, not for long at any rate. "Well, it does run in the family," he said, keeping his tone as light as he could.  
  
"I suppose," Robin said, although his frown suggested he didn't really suppose it at all.  
  
"It's in our blood," Vlad tried again.  
  
"Yeah, okay," Robin looked away, "let's get all the bad vampire jokes out of the way. Yes, I dress up in a cape on national TV. No, I don't really believe there are blood sucking fiends in Britain. Except," Robin flashed him a smile and Vlad dared to hope, "maybe the Prime Minister."  
  
"What about this?" Vlad asked before he could think better of it, holding out the dog eared copy of " _Count Boremal_ " Myra had given him.  
  
Robin blushed. "What about it?"  
  
Vlad thought of his new, non-bland, image and pressed ahead, "Why am I the vampire?" Robin blushed harder and the scent of rushing blood had Vlad pushing up out of his seat and moving closer.  
  
"It's not really you," Robin stuttered out, looking uncomfortable. At Vlad's raised eyebrow he amended, "I mean, I based the drawing on you, but it isn't  _you_. I know you're not, you weren't, and, the other stuff, that was all made up. I mean –"  
  
He was so close now he could feel Robin's body heat, the sensation threatening to overpower his self-control. He thought back to that day in his bedroom, the day he had kissed Robin, and struggled to bring his mind back to the present. It didn't really help. Robin had trailed off and was staring up at him fearfully. Robin's heart was pounding; his cheeks flushed red, his dark eyes almost black.  
  
Vlad felt his resolve snap like something physical and reached out a hand, as carefully as he could, to touch Robin's cheek. Robin didn't try and turn away, if anything, he pressed into the touch and Vlad couldn't stop himself from leaning in closer, breathing in great – useless – lungfuls of the scent he had missed so badly. From sliding his hand into Robin's hair, anchoring it as he pressed their lips together.  
  
Robin kissed him back, his own hands coming up to rest in Vlad's hair, clutching at him as if he were afraid he might disappear at any moment. Vlad understood the feeling; pressing in as close as he could, scarcely able to believe that Robin was really there, was really surging up against him like something out of every wet dream he'd had since he was fourteen.  
  
It might've played out even more similarly were it not for Robin suddenly placing a firm hand against his chest and pushing. "Vlad," he started, panting, "you 'ave to move." As soon as there were a few inches between them Robin was excavating his mobile phone from his pocket, pushing one hand through his dishevelled hair as he held it to his ear.  
  
"Imelda?"  
  
Vlad watched, trying not to look as hurt as he felt at the brush-off. Doing his best not to think of how he had probably just ruined any hope he might have had of getting Robin's friendship back. Robin was standing up; shrugging back into the jacket Vlad couldn't remember him having removed,  
  
"I'll be there now."

Vlad sat still for a long moment after Robin had garbled his apologies, trying to get his emotions under control, flinching as he heard the front door slam behind Robin. He could sense Ingrid, Myra and his dad waiting outside the sitting room door, waiting to give him their comments on his dismal failure of an evening.

He had spent fifteen years trying to convince himself he was over Robin Branagh.  
  
It had taken less than fifteen seconds in Robin's company to prove he wasn't.

* * *

"Imelda!" Robin pulled her into a hug before pulling back and pushing her hair away from her face, she had been crying and her hair was damp, mascara and foundation streaked down her cheeks. "It's alright, I'm here."

She burst into fresh tears and clutched at him. "I don't want to stay here. I want to go home."  
  
Kelsey hovered in the sitting room doorway and Robin resisted the urge, with difficulty, to tell her exactly what he thought of her. Instead he concentrated on trying to calm Imelda down. Eventually she pushed away from him, looking faintly embarrassed, and he did his best not to crowd her and baby her the way he wanted to.  
  
"Do you want me to go an' get your stuff? You can wait in the car."  
  
Imelda shook her head, swiping at her eyes, "No. I can do it. You wait here."  
  
Robin eyed Kelsey dubiously; he hadn't spoken more than a few words to her in years, but nodded obediently all the same.  
  
"I suppose you're going to say 'I told you so' now," Kelsey said the instant Imelda disappeared upstairs.  
  
Robin scowled and didn't answer, focussing instead on the expensive hall carpet. He wondered whether husband number three would last longer than it took for him to redecorate the entire house.  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, Robin!" Kesley snapped. "You're supposed to be the adult! You're worse than she is."  
  
"Don't lecture me on being an adult!" Robin hissed back, glaring at her. "And don't pass judgement on my daughter; you've never seen enough of her to know anything about it!" His voice rose throughout the sentence, ending on a yell. He shook his head in frustration and looked away.  
  
"Look, I'm sorry, alright." Kelsey said quietly. She went on awkwardly, "I was so young. I was just scared."  
  
"What, and I wasn't?" Robin asked incredulously, not willing to give in and accept her words for the apology they were. "How do you think I felt? Your dad turning up on my doorstep and threatening to kill me!"  
  
Kelsey smiled in spite of herself; Robin thought it made her look younger, prettier. "I thought it better you than me. He'd never have really gone to the police." Robin snorted but didn't answer. "Come on, she'll be a while. Have some tea." At Robin's hesitation she went on, "For old time's sake."  
  
Robin put his hands out in surrender, smiling tightly. He could do mature.

* * *

"Vlad, you can't be serious."

"Deadly," Vlad spat, dropping an armful of clothes into his trunk.  
  
"So, that's it?" Ingrid shook her head. "You're running away. Again."  
  
"I'm not running away," Vlad said, piling his books in on top. "I said I was only going to stay until they'd finished at Chambers. And now they have." He glared at her, daring her to contradict him.  
  
"I," Ingrid started, sneering at him, "really don't care if you're miserable for the rest of your unlife. You can fill a hundred sorry little diaries and force feed yourself soya blood until you drop dead. For real. It's nothing to me. But," she pressed a finger into his chest and Vlad swallowed, "if you've ever been at all serious about living with the breathers…"  
  
She pressed in closer, making Vlad glad she had given up her attempts to supplant him early on, "Grow a spine!"

* * *

"What were you doing tonight anyway?" Kelsey asked, putting a mug of tea down in front of him. "No hot date?"

Robin didn't like her tone, the way she almost laughed as if it were an impossibility, but remembered his resolve to not let her get to him. "I went to see a friend from school," he hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much he wanted her to know, before adding, "Vlad Count."  
  
"Vlad? I thought he moved away."  
  
"He did. He's visiting his dad." Robin fidgeted, trying not to think of what he and Vlad had just done. He ran a hand through his hair again, suddenly afraid Kelsey could tell. She was looking at him in a way that was putting him on edge.  
  
"You know she isn't yours, don't you?" Kelsey blurted suddenly, not making eye contact.  
  
He knew. Deep down, he'd always known. But, somehow, to have it put beyond all doubt made it sting all the more. Cautiously he nodded.  
  
"I never meant things to go that far," Kelsey went on, voice small and nervous now, "I just wanted to get my dad off my back. And, then, you were saying that you were going to fight for the baby. That you wanted to bring her up." She looked away and Robin shifted awkwardly, she was crying. "It was too good to be true."  
  
"I thought," Robin started, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "that you just didn't know." He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, "I couldn't remember either way."  
  
Kelsey sniffed and shook her head slightly, "You were so drunk. You couldn't have even if you'd wanted to." She gave him a watery smile, "You called me Vlad."  
  
His fingers felt numb, shock and embarrassment warring for dominance. He couldn't believe that Kelsey had never spread it round. That he had never worked it out for himself.  
  
"Dad? Are you ready?"  
  
He turned to see Imelda stood in the doorway, face scrubbed and bags at her feet. He glanced once more at Kelsey, finally accepting the regret in her eyes as genuine, and nodded. At least, he thought as he made his way into the cold night air, the day couldn't get any worse.

* * *

"Are you sure you won't have some cake, Vlad?" Mrs. Branagh asked, smiling at him.

Vlad shook his head, twisting his hands together in his lap. He couldn't remember ever having felt so nervous. If Robin didn't hurry up he wasn't entirely sure he had the courage to go through with it.  
  
"What did you say you do again?" Mr. Branagh asked, a hint of suspicion colouring his voice. Vlad supposed he couldn't blame him, wishing he'd had the sense to change out of his travelling cape  _before_  he'd knocked at the Branagh's front door.  
  
"Well – "  
  
His answer was cut short by the sound of the door opening.

* * *

"What are you doing here!" Robin hissed, pulling Vlad into the kitchen as his mam fussed over Imelda. "Now is not a good time." He hoped the harshness of his words would be enough to mask the fact he felt like he could swoon from having Vlad in such close proximity.

"I-" Vlad stuttered, before seeming to become more sure of himself, "I'm a vampire – you know that – and I love you. I always have."  
  
Vlad looked at him expectantly and Robin clutched at the kitchen worktop behind him. He had to be dreaming because there was no way this could really be happening. No way. He looked at Vlad more closely, at the extreme pallor of his skin, and the smudge of ink on his left cheekbone that he knew – and Vlad was right because, in spite of fifteen years of alternately trying to forget and turn it into some big joke, he did know – Vlad had no way of seeing.  
  
"Aren't you going to say something?" Vlad asked him anxiously, his self assuredness seeming to have deserted him as quickly as it had came. "Anything?"  
  
Robin thought of all the thousands of things he had wanted to say to Vlad over the years. Of the things he'd wanted to yell at him – Why had he left? Why had he not stayed in touch? If he hadn't cared then why had he ever pretended to in the first place? Of the things he had wanted to whisper to him; How much he missed him. How much he loved him.  
  
What came out was the mantra he had been using so long it was almost second nature,  
  
"Vampires don't exist, Vlad."

* * *

* * *

"Dad?"

Robin hastily shoved the photograph into his dresser drawer as Imelda cautiously opened the door. Looking up he smiled at her as best he could, "Yes, love?"  
  
She shifted from foot to foot, clearly weighing up what to say. He waited patiently.  
  
"I do love you," she mumbled finally, blushing.  
  
"I love you too," He beamed up at her and made to hug her.  
  
"Yeah, alright, get off me."  
  
"Okay, okay, no hugging," he nodded, sitting back down on his bed, stupid grin still firmly in place. Imelda sat next to him and went on, seemingly finding it easier to speak now that she wasn't facing him,  
  
"You're so much better than mum." At Robin's increasingly wide grin she amended, "You're still weird and embarrassing though."  
  
"I've got a reputation to maintain," he shrugged.  
  
Imelda pulled a face, "Were you always this sad?"  
  
"I'm not sad!" Robin protested with mock outrage.  
  
"Yeah, right." Imelda said coolly. Eventually she said, "That guy from earlier?"  
  
"Vlad?" Robin asked, struggling to keep his voice level. He had almost managed not to think about the crumpled look on Vlad's face back in the kitchen for a full three minutes. Not to think of the way he had placed an unnaturally cold hand – and it had been strange how those hands had been everywhere hours earlier and he hadn't even noticed – over his own and told him, solemnly, that he wasn't going to give up that easily before leaving.  
  
"Yeah, him." She fidgeted, still looking straight ahead. "I think you should see him again."  
  
"Yeah?" He asked softly. Imelda had always hated anybody he had ever been involved with. More, it had seemed to him, on principle than anything else.  
  
"Yeah, he had a cape with him. Must be a total weirdo." She finally looked him in the eye and smiled, "You two were  _obviously_  made for each other."

He felt wrung out at work the next day, like he had condensed a couple of months worth of emotional turmoil into a single night. Caleb was as unsympathetic and tactless as he would be were their situation reversed.  
  
"It didn't go well then, I take it. Oh, don't give me that look, Robin. I saw you making off with that tub of hair gel on Tuesday, you had to be tarting yourself up for somebody."  
  
Robin's expression tightened, he really didn't want to talk about it. His head was in a mess. One moment accepting Vlad's confession seemed the easiest thing in the world. He only had to say it back and they would live happily ever after. Then common sense would kick in, and the best course of action seemed to be forgetting he had ever seen Vlad again. Caleb carried on obliviously,  
  
"Come on, I want to hear all the sordid details. This dry spell is getting so dry even the thought of your bare legs isn't a complete turn off. It can't be that bad. What did you do? Try and suck her blood?"  
  
He must have blanched then, because Caleb's entire demeanour changed. He dropped into the seat opposite Robin, tone serious, "Is something wrong?"  
  
Robin stared at the mug of cold tea in his hand, wondering how much he could tell Caleb without the other man ringing for the men in white coats.   
  
"I," he started, awkwardly, "had a blast from the past. Someone from school. We were, I mean I thought we were, I mean - " He sighed, giving up, "I don't know what I mean."  
  
Caleb watched him, apparently weighing his next words carefully. There was a call that they were almost ready to start and Caleb yelled back, put a hand on his arm, just for a moment, and said as he stood to leave,  
  
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

* * *

When Vlad got back to the castle he went straight to his room, ignoring the bombardment of questions from his family. He sat at the window staring out unseeingly into the night sky, the twinkling stars and the sodium glow of Stokely's streetlights.

It was only when dawn was almost upon them that Vlad forced himself away, closing the shutters and dropping down onto his bed, trying desperately not to think about Robin. About the startled look on his face as he had told him he wouldn't give up. Vlad thought it was possibly one of the bravest thing he had ever done. Not that the thought made him feel any better.  
  
He slept fitfully throughout the day and, even when the sunset, he lay staring helplessly up at the bed hangings, mind full of nothing but Robin. How he still smiled the same crooked grin and wore the same aftershave, a smell that at once transported him back to happier, innocent times, and made him want to pin Robin to the nearest solid surface and work the breathy groans from him he had heard earlier.  
  
It was then he took a deep breath – a habit he had never managed to break – and was shocked to find his senses full of the very scent he'd been thinking of. For a moment he thought he was imagining it but, then, there was a cautious tap at the door and he realised with a start that Robin was knocking at his bedroom door. He barrelled off the bed at full speed and wrenched the door open before Robin had chance to think better of it.  
  
Robin was staring at him wide-eyed, heart beating hurriedly with nerves. "Renfield let me in," he said softly, "we need to talk."

* * *

Vlad stood back to let him in and Robin stepped over the threshold gingerly. Half his brain was screaming at him that he was insane, that Vlad was insane, and he was making a huge mistake. The other half was too busy excitedly pointing out that he was in Vlad's bedroom.

At Vlad's insistence he sat down on the edge of Vlad's bed, gaze falling on a framed photograph of him and Vlad back when they were still at school. Vlad followed his gaze as he sat next to him, wringing his hands together. "I never forgot you."  
  
"Yeah?" Robin couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Had a funny way of showing it, didn't you?" He had kept quiet about it the day before, when his hope had just been to be friends with Vlad. Now Vlad was claiming that he loved him. Had always loved him. Robin didn't think it was out of order to be skeptical about it.  
  
Vlad cringed. "I couldn't contact you."  
  
"Why not?" Robin fixed him with a hurt look, years of wondering why his best friend had dropped him like a hot stone breaking through. "It would have taken you two minutes to ring me and let me know you were okay."  
  
"You don't understand," Vlad shook his head, looking down at his hands, "I couldn't. If anybody knew about you, you wouldn't have been safe." He looked up at Robin then, expression entreating, "They would have killed you. I wasn't strong enough then to stop them." He looked away again, looking miserable and defeated, "I'm barely strong enough now."  
  
Robin sucked in a shocked breath. That hadn't been the answer he was expecting. Vlad went on,  
  
"I wanted to though. I wrote you letters; dozens and dozens of letters. I just never sent them." He pushed a hand through his hair and Robin noted the deep dark circles underneath his eyes for the first time. "I still do sometimes, write to you. I imagine you reading it, laughing at all my stupid screw-ups and still wanting to be my friend just the same."  
  
Vlad looked so vulnerable Robin found himself unable to summon the righteous anger he so wanted to. Instead he touched a hand to Vlad's, swallowing at how cold it was. Vlad looked up carefully, gauging his reaction. After a moment Vlad moved his hand, using a light grip to bring Robin's hand up to his chest, pressing it palm down over his heart.  
  
"It's not beating," Robin managed, not sure if he was more shocked at the confirmation that it was real, that it was all real, or that he wasn't more freaked out about it.  
  
Vlad gave him a small smile, "It doesn't mean I love you any less."  
  
Robin shook his head. "That's the cheesiest line I've ever heard, Vlad."  
  
"I've been saving it for you," Vlad answered, although his eyes were intense, tone longing. Robin brought his free hand up to touch Vlad's cheek, stroking his thumb across it. Vlad's eyes fluttered closed, lashes dark against his pale skin and Robin felt his own heart clench. He shifted closer, hesitating for a long moment before pressing his lips softly to Vlad's, as chaste and tender as the day before had been passionate and frenzied.  
  
When he pulled away Vlad asked seriously, "Do you think you could love me back?"  
  
"I think," Robin started slowly, not wanting to give everything away yet, until he was sure that Vlad meant what he said. That he wasn't going to be making a fool of himself, "I want to try."  
  
Vlad's smile was blinding, lighting up his entire face. "I have to get home now," Robin said apologetically. "They'll be wondering where I am. I could see you tomorrow though. If," he added hurriedly, "you want to."  
  
"It's your birthday," Vlad smiled fondly, and Robin couldn't help but be flattered Vlad still remembered.  
  
"Yeah, my Mam's doing a  _special tea_ ," he grimaced; as if he wanted to celebrate. "You can come if you want."  
  
"Really?"  
  
Vlad sounded so eager he had to laugh, "Yes, really." He snorted and stood to leave, glad for the chance to be able to go away and make sense of everything.  
  
"Robin," Vlad called when he got to the door, and he halted, waiting expectantly. "Thanks for giving me a second chance."

* * *

"Not that one!" Robin protested as Imelda threw another T-shirt onto the 'take outside and burn' pile. "I like that one."

Imelda turned to glare at him. "Do you want this guy to fancy you or not?" Robin shifted uncomfortably; he did, but he didn't think he wanted his daughter to know exactly how badly. It wasn't the done thing, was it? "This Vlad is proper rich," she told him, "if you turn up wearing this," she held the threadbare T-shirt up, "he's going to come to his senses and look elsewhere."  
  
"I don't think Vlad would-"  
  
She glared harder and Robin stopped, conceding defeat. "Alright, alright, you know best." Maybe she had a point. Who knew how Vlad had changed over the last fifteen years? The button down shirt and expensive suit trousers Vlad had been wearing yesterday had nothing in common with the luminous cut-offs and striped sweaters of the boy he had once known.  
  
Imelda grinned in triumph. "Once I'm finished here, we're going to go shopping and you're going to buy some half decent stuff for this party." Robin opened his mouth to complain, only to shut it silently at the look on her face. Back when they had first placed her in his arms, big blue eyes staring up at him, he had never envisioned _this_.

* * *

"No," Myra said dismissively, scarcely glancing up from her magazine.

"I don't need your opinion," Vlad said in response, looking down at the shirt he had picked out anxiously all the same. He wanted Robin to like him. And by extension that meant Robin's mum and dad and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews - and  _daughter_  - liking him too. He felt sick with nerves. Tonight had to go well. It had to.  
  
"It makes you look about twelve," Ingrid smirked, stalking into the living space and dropping down onto a sofa. "He wants a vampire, not a boy."  
  
"Black or red, Vlad, those are the colours you want," the Count drawled from his chair, "the blood won't show up."  
  
"We've been through this," Vlad scowled, "I am not going to bite him. It's a birthday party, not," he flailed a hand in search of something suitably opposite, settling on, "some sort of kinky sex party."  
  
"You've got sex on the brain," Myra piped up, grinning at his obvious discomfort. "My friend Marijus," Ingrid pursed her lips at the mention of her least favourite Lithuanian, "has, like, a whole scrapbook full of Sunblock kiss and tells on you. D'you think Robin would like to read about how rubbish you are in bed now, or do you want it to be a surprise?"  
  
The Count was sniggering into his hand and Vlad snarled, "Watch your mouth." Robin wouldn't be disappointed with him. He hoped. He had never slept with a breather before; he wondered if Robin would be able to tell.  
  
"He wants it to be a surprise," Ingrid answered for him, "it'll help Branagh learn to keep his expectations low."  
  
"You - he -" Vlad stuttered, incoherent in humiliated rage, before turning on his heel, "I'm going to change my shirt!" Their laughter followed him all the way upstairs.

* * *

"Oh, Robin, you look very smart," Mrs. Branagh gushed as he entered the room. Robin looked away self-consciously, he felt a prize idiot in the trendy shirt and jeans Imelda had insisted he buy.

"Loving the new look, Robbo," Ian said, clapping him on the shoulder, "almost mistook you for someone half normal there for a minute."  
  
"Thanks," Robin grimaced, rotating his shoulder subtly. Ian had done nothing but become more heavy set with each passing year of active rugby playing. Paul grinned, handing him a birthday card,  
  
"Never thought I'd see the day, who's the lucky lady?"  
  
"Vlad Count," Mr. Branagh said from where he was currently being clambered over by two small children, tone full of disapproval, "he'll be here in a bit."  
  
Paul's grin grew impossibly wide and Robin groaned inwardly, the nervous roiling of his stomach increasing fourfold. Not only was the undead (and he would no doubt get back to freaking about that later) man of his dreams about to spend hours in the company of his painfully embarrassing family, the twins were going to gloat endlessly about how they had been right all along. He could picture it now.  
  
Before he even had chance to beg Paul to keep his mouth shut there was a knock at the door, Mrs. Branagh rushing to her feet to go and answer it. Anybody would think Vlad was her date, the level of excitement his attendance had been engendering in her all day. He swallowed, sinking down onto the sofa at a discreet push from Chloe, heart pounding as he watched his Mam usher Vlad into the room to sit down next to him. Vlad's thigh was pressed tight against him, blood red shirt pulled taught across his narrow frame, and it was all Robin could do to remember how to breathe.  
  
"Happy birthday," Vlad said quietly once the first round of boisterous greetings were out of the way, handing him a card and a small, neatly wrapped present. Robin smiled his thanks, heart skipping a beat as he met Vlad's intense gaze, for a moment forgetting that his entire family were watching him intently. And then there was a crash as sticky little fingers knocked a plate from the coffee table and the moment was broken, Robin blushing as he concentrated on opening the card.  
  
"So, like, what do you do?" Imelda asked Vlad, sweeping her ever critical gaze over him. Robin smiled to himself as he read the simple message printed in Vlad's careful copperplate, lingering over the 'all my love' with soft eyes.  
  
"I work in government, it's all very boring. Lots of paperwork."  
  
Paul groaned, "Aw, not one of them, are you? Like vampires, they are, draining us dry. I tell you, small businesses are getting the brunt of this recession –"  
  
"The Romanian government," Robin amended for Vlad, not looking up from where he was unwrapping the present Vlad had given him. "He don't want to hear about 'ow much tax you're paying. Do you Vlad?"  
  
"Well, er," Vlad started awkwardly, clearly not wanting to offend anyone.  
  
"You can't move to Romania," Imelda said abruptly, getting to her feet and slamming from the room. Robin's stomach sank as reality hit him square around the face, even as Vlad stared after her in shock, stuttering,  
  
"I commute mostly."  
  
Robin placed the half unwrapped present on the table and went after her, pausing only to pat Vlad on the shoulder. He should have had more sense, he thought angrily. How was he supposed to explain to Imelda that Vlad was very nice, but didn't get along well with garlic, religious imagery or pointy pieces of wood, and had a tendency to self-combust in direct sunlight?  
  
What on earth had he been thinking?  
  
He found Imelda in the kitchen, her shoulders rigid with tension as she gripped at the worktop, staring out of the window.   
  
"I'm not moving there," she told him bluntly. "I love you, but I don't love you that much."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Imelda shrugged, but otherwise made no response, though she swallowed loudly, a sign even Robin knew to mean that she was holding back tears.  
  
"I wouldn't ask you to move again," Robin said, wishing he could be sure she wouldn't lock herself in her bedroom if he simply tried to hug her. "It wouldn't be fair on you."  
  
Imelda shut her eyes tight then and Robin gave into instinct, pulling her to him, feeling justified when she sniffled, only putting up a token struggle.   
  
"I heard," she told him, voice muffled where her face was pressed into his shirt front. "I heard you and mum talking."  
  
"You heard?" Robin echoed, hoping against hope that he hadn't heard her correctly. That she wasn't referring to what he thought she was referring to. The idea made him feel sick, part of him wondering how he was going to keep his composure if she said she didn't want to stay with him. If she wanted to know who her real Dad was. If she said she preferred  _him_.  
  
"I was going to tell you," he forced out, his voice sounding odd with the strain.  
  
"No, you weren't," Imelda shook her head faintly. "I know you."  
  
Robin put a hand to his eyes and concentrated on breathing and not doing anything which would make her think him even more of a loser. Imelda went on,  
  
"I'm sorry for what I said. I don't want you to move there without me. I'll be nicer. I am trying."  
  
He took a shaky breath, realisation hitting him. "It doesn't make any difference to me, that I'm not," he swallowed, unable to finish the sentence. "I don't love you any less. I'm not going anywhere without you. Ever."  
  
Imelda clung to him tighter still and sobbed.

* * *

Vlad was relieved when Robin finally re-emerged, Mr. Branagh's questions were getting harder and harder to evade. Imelda followed moments later to sit beside him and, though it was obvious, nobody mentioned the fact that she had been crying. Vlad felt guilty for having listened in with half an ear but, on the other hand, it made him all the more certain he was making the right decision. His gaze fell to the still unopened giftbox on the coffee table and he hoped Robin would feel the same way. 

The rest of the evening passed quickly, though he didn't have chance to get Robin alone, and Chloe lingered as she said goodbye to him, so that he couldn't help but wonder just how much she remembered about him. More than Jonno did, he was certain. That was undoubtedly for the best.  
  
Mrs. Branagh pressed the little box into his hand when the front door shut behind Chloe, a knowing smile on her face. "I'm so glad you're back in his life, Vlad," she said, making him blush. "Don't let Graham get to you." She smiled serenely, "A mother always knows best."  
  
In the kitchen he found Imelda untidily stacking a pile of used plates and cutlery onto the sideboard. "Have you seen your dad?" He asked softly, mindful of the conversation he shouldn't have been eavesdropping in on, and she jumped, cursing colourfully as her finger grazed the blade of the knife Mrs. Branagh had earlier used to cut the cake.  
  
Vlad froze, an instant wave of want washing over him and making his entire body ache. The blood smelt exactly as he remembered and he had to clench his eyes shut, the fingernails of the hand not clutching Robin's birthday present digging jagged crescents into his palm. He felt weak legged and light headed, unable to move.  
  
"What's wrong with you?" Imelda asked, sounding slightly panicked. Vlad was glad that she had the sense to shrink away from him, rather than step closer. His control was not what it could be. He forced his eyes open, trying to get a verbal warning out.  
  
He hadn't uttered a single syllable before Imelda was screaming.

* * *

"Dad, it's alright," Robin insisted. "It was just a misunderstanding."

"I don't know how you can say that, Robin," Mr. Branagh told him sniffily. "You need to get your priorities straight. This is your daughter's safety we're talking about."  
  
Robin shook his head in frustration, "It wasn't like that!" Sucking in a calming breath, he went on, "I know what I'm doing."  
  
Mr. Branagh gave him a searching look before shrugging lightly in defeat, "I hope you do, Robin. I hope you do." Robin watched as his father left the room and heaved a tired sigh, looking through the kitchen window to where Imelda was sat opposite Vlad at his parents' picnic bench. The latter he noticed was wringing his hands together, obviously fighting hard against instinct, even as he tried to answer her questions.  
  
He made his way outside, and joined them, shivering slightly in the cool night air.  
  
"You're not a vampire," Imelda was hissing, face pale and frightened, "there's no such thing." She glanced up at him imploringly, "Tell him, dad. He's a nutter."  
  
"It's true," Robin said softly, sitting down next to her and putting an arm around her shoulders. She didn't even try to shake him off which he thought was an ominous sign in itself. "You've seen for yourself."  
  
She shook her head, looking warily at the glint of sharp white fang clear in the moonlight, "They must be fake."  
  
Vlad looked down at his hands, "I wish they were."  
  
Imelda turned still paler, one hand flying to her mouth, "Oh my God, that night in the park! You had your mouth on my neck. And now you're seeing my dad. That is just too gross for words."  
  
Robin's hold on her tightened as he processed the words. He looked up at Vlad accusingly. Could it be true? Just because Vlad had always said he wasn't going to feed on anyone, Robin realised belatedly, didn't mean that he had actually followed through with the idealism. Vlad couldn't meet his gaze, guilt written all over his face, and Robin felt disappointment and anger and a hundred other horrid emotions swell within him.  
  
"I didn't bite them," Vlad said quietly, the words muffled as they were cast down to the bench rather than across to them. "I've never bitten anyone."  
  
"Who did then?" Robin demanded. He felt betrayed, steadfastly ignoring the part of him that wanted to exonerate Vlad. The part reminding him that Vlad would have had no way of knowing who Imelda was. Vlad had told him once that a vampire could tell all sorts of things from blood: feelings, desires, ancestry. It was all there if you knew how to interpret it.  
  
It hurt more to think of why this skill would have been useless.  
  
Imelda pressed closer to him, and Vlad visibly winced. "Dad and Ingrid, you know how they are…" Vlad trailed off, and Imelda shivered. Robin thought of his father's words and the fact it was cold and late. He dredged up his sensible voice, the one he had used to soothe through tantrums over everything from bedtime to eyeliner, and said,  
  
"I think we've all had a bit of a shock, and it would be best if we spoke about this tomorrow."  
  
Vlad looked at him like he'd just lost what remained of his mind. Robin did his best to ignore it, and stood, bringing Imelda with him. Vlad seemed to get the hint then and stood, although he was still staring at him with incredulous eyes. Imelda didn't wait for him, and he found himself on the back doorstep alone with Vlad.  
  
"I swear I didn't bite her," Vlad told him. "I couldn't tell where the blood came from." Vlad sounded anxious, desperate.  
  
"I said we should talk about it tomorrow."  
  
"Yeah," Vlad nodded, biting at his lower lip with his elongated canines. Robin remembered drawing the exact same scene, dreaming that Vlad might see it and come back to him. It made his heart clench and he had to look away. A hand on his shoulder stopped him as he was about to step through the doorway and he turned back, pulse racing.  
  
Vlad gave him a sad smile, and held out the box he hadn't unwrapped, "You forgot this."  
  
Robin took it cautiously, careful not to touch Vlad. "We'll talk about it tomorrow, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," Vlad croaked out, hesitating only for seconds before looking down and disappearing. Robin startled and, when he finally turned towards the house, it was to see Imelda wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

* * *

They spoke about it for hours, until Robin felt like he had almost exhausted his knowledge on vampires. It was a novel feeling.

"So what do you think?" He asked finally, waiting nervously for her response.  
  
"You want to know if I think you should date a corpse?"  
  
"He's not a zombie!" Robin protested. Imelda arched an eyebrow and he shrugged, "But, essentially, yeah."  
  
She cocked her head to the side, seeming to consider the question. Just when Robin felt as if his nerves couldn't take any more waiting she finally spoke, "This is really weird, yeah. Like, proper weird. Even weirder than when you bought that coffin instead of a bed." Robin nodded seriously, that was pretty hard to top. Imelda went on, "And I'm not saying I'm crazy about the idea. Because I'm not. I think he's a right freak. And he's related to Myra."  
  
"But," she sighed, "He's still better than Gerald." She ended this with a trademark sneer, though her eyes were still puffy and swollen, and Robin smiled in spite of himself. Imelda yawned widely and curled into her pillow, "Don't tell him I said that though."  
  
"Course not," Robin said fondly, brushing her hair from her forehead before getting up from where he had been perched on the edge of her bed. He glanced back to see she had already fallen asleep, and switched off the light with a smile, closing her bedroom door behind him.

* * *

* * *

"What if he says he's not interested?" Vlad asked plaintively, struggling with his cufflinks.

Ingrid looked up from her magazine with a scowl, "Why am I supposed to care?" She shook her head, "You'll just have to try harder to convince him, won't you?"  
  
Vlad scowled back at her, glad Myra was in school out of the way. No doubt she would have had something to say on the matter.  
  
"What did he say about the ring anyway?" Ingrid asked, tone disinterested as she flicked through 'Vampiress Weekly'. Vlad thought that now was not really the time to point out how she would never have been seen undead reading it a few years ago. "Dad won't be happy when he finds out you've given it to a breather."  
  
"It's mine," Vlad said defensively, "I can do what I like with it." This was true, technically. The Dracula seal had been his since he turned eighteen. Although, if Robin wasn't even going to speak to him again, it might make things difficult. Ingrid smirked at him and he tried to ignore her, reaching for his cape before thinking better of it. Mr. Branagh was getting suspicious.  
  
"You still haven't answered," Ingrid, as ever, never knew when to quit, "What did he say?"  
  
"He didn't say anything," Vlad snapped, moving to the window to peer through the cracks in the shutters. It was almost dark. "He didn't open it." He scowled harder at his sister, "I told you, it was a disaster."  
  
"Well," Ingrid shrugged, "you were involved in it."  
  
He glanced out to see the sky was finally black and moved. There was no point in hanging around to be insulted further.

* * *

Robin sat in the sitting room, waiting anxiously. His Mam had persuaded his Dad they should go and visit Paul, just to get him out of the house. Robin was grateful, even if he had had to endure her knowing smiles all afternoon. It was creepy.

Imelda had told him she was going round David's and, as he was seeing Vlad, he had no right to stop her. He liked to think she was, in her own way, wishing him luck. It was just after dusk when there was a knock at the door and Robin stood hurriedly, nervously twisting at the ring on his finger.  
  
He had unwrapped Vlad's gift after going to bed, awed – although he'd never admit it – to open the box and find the family seal. It was weighty, silver and onyx, and probably worth more than every other commodity he had in his possession combined. He wrenched the door open to find Vlad fidgeting on the door step. It made him feel calmer somehow, to see that Vlad wasn't as cool and confident as he appeared.  
  
They sat down, and he offered tea and biscuits and half the contents of the kitchen cupboards before Vlad got up to sit next to him and take his hands in his own. Vlad looked at their conjoined hands and smiled. "You're wearing it."  
  
"Yeah." Robin didn't know what else to say, heart hammering in his chest at Vlad's proximity, all his carefully thought out speeches having deserted him.  
  
"I probably should have explained what it meant," Vlad admitted, stroking his thumb across the back of Robin's hand. "When you wear it, I mean."  
  
"Vlad," Robin scoffed softly, "you gave me a ring. I think I can work it out." Vlad was silent and Robin backtracked, cheeks flushing with humiliation, the weird look on Vlad's face at the sight doing nothing to reassure him. "Unless it's not like that at all and –"  
  
His words were cut off by the cool press of lips against his own, a hand sliding into his hair to hold his head in place. His own hands rose, almost of their own accord, to clutch Vlad closer, mouth opening readily to let Vlad deepen the kiss.  
  
Vlad's mouth on his was frantic and he found himself kissing back with equal enthusiasm, spurred on by how desperate Vlad seemed to be. When Vlad finally broke away to let him breathe, he was panting raggedly, his own pulse deafeningly loud in his ears. Vlad was watching him with dark eyes. Robin shifted, and shivered at the way Vlad's gaze fell to his neck, black with longing.  
  
"You want to bite me, don't you?" Vlad met his eyes, and this time he saw nothing but fear. This time he took Vlad's hand, determined that the hours he'd spent formulating the perfect words would not go to waste. Vlad had always said he had a way with words. In retrospect he realised it was probably meant as an insult, but now wasn't the time to dwell on that.  
  
"It's alright, Vlad. You know I'd let you. I always wanted you to." He smiled at Vlad, hoping it was reassuring. "Even before I understood why I used to have dreams about you biting me."  
  
"Yeah?" Vlad asked, voice rough.  
  
"Yeah," Robin replied, surprised at how dark his voice own sounded. He swallowed thickly and went on, "I know it's going to be –" he hesitated, searching for the right word, "awkward but, me and Imelda, we've talked about it and I want to try. I mean, if that's what you want."  
  
Vlad grinned, wide and unrestrained, looking so much like the boy he remembered. "Of course it's what I want." He gave him a slightly chastising look, "I've told you that."  
  
"Just making sure." Robin pressed a kiss to Vlad's cheek, just because he could, and said, "You'll 'ave to make it up to me though, your disappearing act."  
  
"Me," Vlad snorted, although he was still beaming, "make it up to you? If you had any idea how much trouble your comic caused me, you wouldn't say that."  
  
"What sort of problems?"  
  
Vlad shook his head, "All sorts." Robin opened his mouth to ask more questions but Vlad held a finger to his lips. "I'll tell you all about it. Later."  
  
"Why later?" He mumbled around against Vlad's finger, liking the way Vlad's eyelids fluttered at the feel of hot air against his chilled skin. Vlad fixed him with a half lidded gaze,  
  
"Because, right now," he moved his hand to card though Robin's hair, leaning in closer, "I can think of better things to do than talk."  
  
Robin agreed.

* * *

* * *

_Epilogue._

"Dad. Dad. Dad!"  
  
"Yes!" Robin yelled down the stairs, searching haphazardly through the clutter on the dresser for his fangs. He was sure he'd put them down somewhere… There was the heavy fall of footsteps and then the door opened, Imelda fixing him with a disgruntled glare.  
  
"Dad, how many more times? I need some money."  
  
Robin grinned in triumph, hand closing around the clear plastic container and he waved it at Imelda. She scowled and gave him a pointed look. Pocketing the tub and grabbing his cape from the back of the chair he said, "Where are you going and who with?"  
  
"I'm not ten."  
  
"And I'm not made of money," Robin countered, ushering her from the room and closing the door behind him, making his way downstairs.  
  
Imelda sighed, "Fine. Me and Myra are going bowling." She glared, "And, before you start, I still hate bowling and Myra is still a weirdo."  
  
Robin smiled at her. "Aw, I knew you'd like her if you gave her a chance." He hid his smirk as she scowled harder; winding her up was so easy to do. He wondered absently if that had been what his own parents had been doing when they came out with infuriating comments. He shook the thought free, anybody who proclaimed themselves to be a member of 'the five a day family' did not have the necessary cunning. He dug into his other pocket and handed her a couple of scrunched up notes,  
  
"Don't spend it all at once."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
She slammed the door on her way out. Robin shook his head fondly and fished his car keys from the mess on the hall side table and toed his shoes on. He'd be in trouble if he was late for work. Again.  
  
Arms slid around his back, goosebumps raising on his skin at the cool touch of a kiss to his neck. "You're not going without saying goodbye?"  
  
"Shouldn't you be at Council?"  
  
"I am Council," he could feel Vlad smiling against his skin; "they'll just have to wait for me."  
  
"Yeah, well, us mere mortals aren't that lucky." He realised his tone might have been a bit sharp as Vlad moved to stand in front of him, palms reaching out to cup either side of his face.  
  
"You don't regret moving in with me, do you?" Vlad's expression was full of anxiety and Robin shook his head, feeling oddly moved that Vlad was so concerned about it. Keeping his tone light he said,  
  
"I just didn't think you'd be so untidy."  
  
Vlad grinned crookedly, "Hey, you saw my room. I can't help it." He lowered his lashes, "It's not my fault there are handsome distractions everywhere I look."  
  
"You seriously need to work on some better lines, Vlad."  
  
There was a press of lips to his cheek, and then a flutter of cape as Vlad made a theatrical exit for his benefit. Robin laughed and shook his head, making his way out of the door for a night of playing at being a vampire for the cameras. He waved at Imelda when he passed her at the bus stop, and she glared and turned away, pretending not to know him.  
  
It definitely wasn't how he imagined his life panning out, he thought, grinning at the prospect of the dramatic complaining he'd get out of the snub later on.  
  
It was better.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, feel free to chat / hit me with prompts over on Tumblr [@serenwib](http://serenwib.tumblr.com/) or Twitter [@falsteloj](https://twitter.com/falsteloj). :)


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